


In His Footsteps

by Barb Cummings (Rahirah)



Series: The Barbverse [86]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 23:19:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahirah/pseuds/Barb%20Cummings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bill talks.  Spike listens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In His Footsteps

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in the same universe as _A Raising in the Sun_, _Necessary Evils_, et. al. (See the [Barbverse Timeline](http://sleepingjaguars.com/buffy/viewpage.php?page=timeline) for specifics.) It contains spoilers for previous works in the series.

Summer evenings were best, when the sun teetered forever on the horizon and spilled long and purple shadows along Revello Drive. When he could come outside and run and yell with the other kids and kick the soccer ball around and wrestle in the grass with Dad, and Mom wouldn't fuss about him getting sunburned. Dad wasn't scared of the sun, so he wasn't either. Even though sometimes it really, really hurt.

No soccer tonight, though. Maybe never again. Not after Mom had William Henry Summers-Pratt'd him. When Mom middle-named you, you were doomed. Bill sniffled, wiped his nose angrily on his sleeve. The back of his hand came away bloody. He started to lick it off, then whipped his hand behind his back, fist clenched, and blinked his stinging eyes hard. He mashed his face against the pillar. The cool stone felt good against his sore cheek, and muffled the shouts of the kids playing dodge ball down the street. He never liked any of them anyway.

He'd been sitting there for eternity - five, maybe ten minutes - when he heard the front door bang, and footsteps on the porch behind him. A second later his father sat down on the steps beside him, beer in one hand, cigarette in the other. Dad didn't say anything for awhile, just set the beer down and took his time lighting up the cigarette, lighter-flare playing off the planes of his face. "Your Mum says you got into a fight."

Bill studied him warily; Dad could get pretty scary when he was mad. "Yeah. With Ned Thompson."

His father vamped out and bit the bottletop off the beer bottle, a move Bill was deeply envious of. He'd practiced on Coke bottles, but his fangs weren't strong enough yet. His father made a silent offer of the bottle; Bill took a sip and handed it back. That was the solemn compact between them on momentous occasions such as this: he got one swallow, and what Mom didn't know wouldn't hurt them. Dad took his own ceremonial swig and raised an eyebrow. "Let's see the damage."

Reluctantly, Bill pulled away from the pillar, let his father examine the fading bruises and scrapes. He wasn't strong the way Mom and Dad were, not yet anyway, but he healed faster than anyone in his class. "It's just some scratches."

"You start it?" Dad asked after a moment.

Bill stared at the toes of his sneakers. "Kinda."

"There more than one word to that story?"

"He called me a monster."

Dad blew a smoke ring, leaned back on one elbow. His profile was sharp and dark against the shadowy mass of the rose bushes. "So you hit him?"

"No," Bill said disdainfully. "He's just jealous 'cause he can't o this." He bared his own fangs. "I hit him when he said you were a monster."

His father's scarred eyebrow lifted. "I am a monster."

His father said that the way Bill always imagined Aslan saying _I have swallowed up girls and boys, women and men, kings and emperors, cities and realms._ "But you're a good monster!" His hands were balling into fists again, curled at his sides. "Right?"

"Not always," Dad said, softly. "But I try." A big cool hand cupped his jaw, tipped his head to meet his father's gaze. "Didn't bite him, did you." It wasn't a question, and the look in his father's eyes was something he'd kill to put there again. Not just love - pride, glowing brighter and warmer than the cigarette butt. "Knew you wouldn't."

Bill shivered. He'd wanted to. If Connie hadn't... "I'm like you, aren't I?"

"Some ways. Some ways not. You've got a temper like your Dad's, that's for certain." His father cocked his head to one side, drew on his cigarette. "Mostly you're like you. What d'you think you are?"

Bill drew himself up, chin jutting. "I'm a good monster. Like you."

His father's arm circled his shoulders. Not really a hug, because he was too old for mushy stuff like that. But a shield, maybe, protection against...something. And just for a minute, he wasn't too old to lean against Dad instead of the pillar. "Dad?"

"Yeh?"

"Can I try your cigarette?"

Dad chuckled, deep and dark and growly. "Not till you're sixteen."   
END


End file.
